Dear Robin, I Don't Even
by Dollfayce
Summary: Sequel of sorts to previous hit, "Dear Robin, Love Batgirl." A just hilarious treatment of romantic travails in Gotham City as experienced by everyone's favorite Gotham ladies.


(A/N--Me and my sister--mostly my sister--have penned the long-awaited sequel to Dear Robin, Love Batgirl. I know. I know. Never fear though, we do accept breathless accolades.

This is for humor, fun, light-hearted whimsy, what have you, and only for these.

And, of course, based on a true story.)

CHAPTER ONE

SERIOUSLY NOT OKAY

"_I can't believe what I'm feeling. All of a sudden I have everything I'll ever need in front of me. I can't stop thinking about her. That cute red hair that falls delicately around her beautiful face. And her smile…Her smile makes my heart soar over all the wrong in the world. She makes me want to be a better man. Oh Marbara. Marbara Borden! :)"_

Whore. Whore whore whore whore. It was impossible to be a bigger whore. Whole new superlatives would have to be invented for the massive planetary pile of whoriness Dick Grayson was amassing.

She had never been more angry. Not even that time that Bruce had laughed at her one idea--out loud! In front of Alfred! Or even that time Joker had just gone ahead and licked her elbow when she was totally delivering the best superhero one-liner ever!

Dick Grayson would pay.

When she found herself planning a death that would look like an accident but still be ignominious and quite painful, involving a hot dog cart and four to seven calico kittens, Barbara had to admit herself that sneaking into Dick's dorm and photocopying his diary was maybe not the best idea she had ever had.

OR WAS IT. FOR NOW SHE KNEW THE TRUTH. About Dick and their mutual friend Marbara, anyway.

Barbara Gordon sat curled up on her dorm-issued computer chair rubbing her temples. The lights were all off, as dusk was slowly slipping into that lonely quiet nighttime that slowly enveloped the room. Half finished homework and dirty laundry was all over the desk and bed just pleading for Barbara's attention. Sad commercials soliciting donations would have to be done for them soon. She looked up and surveyed the sad little mess.

"At least someone wants my love and attention," she thought, before snorting at her own self-pity. Laundry and homework was not what she had in mind for a Friday night, when she started school. There were probably supposed to be more parties, and less stupid boys.

Right?

The worst part was she absolutely could not go to the Batcave. HE would…well….he would be there. Because, well. He lived there.

_And anyway that's just sick, Babs_, she chided herself. _Ya gotta stay away_. Unfortunately crime-fighting was out of the question. She had previously had to admit that crime fighting was surprisingly not good to do in this mood. There was just a slight possibility of overreaction. Not that she had tried to do Good one night and ended up punching a guy who looked like Dick in the face for looking at a hot girl. Who ended up being his girlfriend. Whatever.

(They got over it pretty fast, anyway. After she had promised to pay for the dry-cleaning. That guy had had like a femoral artery IN HIS NOSE, seriously.)

She let out a deep sigh. "Oh my gawwwwdddd."she moaned.

And to top it all off her roommate Christine would be back from piano class any minute now. Christine was just a t_horoughly _charming girl who not so transparently operated under the notion that Barbara was some drug-addled hedonistic kinky prostitute, possibly because of Ms. Gordon's odd hours and awkward cuts and bruises, and violent paranoia. Another touchy subject was the food. The refrigerator and designated food shelf was awkwardly divided between wholesome organic hippy food and what Barbara called "Real Food." Babara's dorm room treats included chocolate chip cookies, crackers, chocolate peanut butter, and, more recently, tears. Not that she had been crying a lot. What?

Listening to all that angry girl rock Ivy had burned for her was not making her life any better. Harley's optimistic music and Selena's classy-bitch crap wasn't doing it either. Shockingly, neither was hacking into Dick's facebook and email and even sneaking into his room and photocopying his journal. Hey. She was a super hero. You'd do it if you had spying equipment and insane computer hacking skills too.

She pulled on her fiercest boots and garumphed her brand new Gotham University sweatshirt over her red head. The awkward anticipatory grey hours were the worst, when dusk settled into Night in Gotham city.

She got out her cell phone. Last 37 calls: Dick Grayson. All four days ago. whatever. A girl could have a bad day once in a while.

Last text: "**Hey honey, you coming home for dinner Sunday?** -Dad" The only text she'd gotten for days.

Suck. Suck suckitude suck. She was a freaking super-hero, she should not have to put up with this crap. Her life was supposed to be interesting and attractive, not painful and tedious and stupid.

Fortunately, her life a super-hero taught her important coping skills. She knew what to do. She knew how mad Bruce would be. But some things just transcend petty things like murder, crime, and justice.

Mass text. **"Hey. You busy tonight? Have I had a day you don't even." **Recipients: Harleen, Pamela, and Selena.

She wouldn't have to wait very long.

* * *

Selena heard her blackberry buzz insistently, and right the middle of her facial. Her face twitched. She thought she had turned her phone off.

She gave a little moan. She had a good idea who the sender was.

"Could you please see who that is?" she purred to Jacques, her favorite therapist at the Gotham Spa. "Anonymous" spa treatment packages Selena kept receiving sometimes almost made up for the fact that instead of dates her lover did the whole "dress up like animals and have awkward, angsty rooftop encounters." Which, she insisted, was a lot classier than it sounded. Otherwise, Bruce did know how to treat a lady. Selena always made sure to request the biggest and strongest masseur, because she felt that's what her "anonymous" donor would want.

"Of course, madame." He fumbled to wipe off his hands the rich exfoliating lotion, full of rich sounding ingredients like honey, sandalwood, and dreams. "Barbara G," he said.  
Shit. She had been expecting this. Things had been completely too quiet. BatBruce did seem distracted, and she hadn't seen Dick or Barbara at all. She had sensed something was going on in the Bat-family. Also whenever Bruce was stressed, he got her more spa packages. That particular correlation was lost on Selena, but she certainly enjoyed it. Barbara had also been missing from the weekly girl get-togethers for the past little bit. Selena had texted her weeks ago about it but had gotten some pathetic throw-away excuse about being so _terribly _busy with college, which was cute considering Selina knew how she spent her evenings.

And it wasn't studying.

Selena didn't open her heavily but tastefully shadowed eyes. "Could you please be a dear and read it to me?"

Jacques used his best calming spa voice. "Of course, Selena." He fumbled for a moment. In the same soothing whisper, "Hey. You busy tonight? Have I had a day you don't even."

"Don't even what?" Selena asks.

"Um. That's it."

"Shit." This time out loud. She should've known. The serene waterfall tinkling down the back wall and the soft dolphin music playing couldn't distract her from the obvious. Barbara was in trouble. Selena sat up, letting the honey mask precariously drip down her face. "Give me the phone." She sent a quick text back.

**"Not at all, darling. Where and when do I pick you up?" **She then sent a series of texts to Ivy and Harley.

"Selena, do you need to go? I can just clean you up and--"

"No, no, no Jacques. We're finishing this. Fortitude, and all that. But I _will_ have to reschedule the full body massage and seaweed wrap." She put the phone down and lay back. She'd need this facial more than ever now.

"Of course, Selena."

An hour later, Selena was prowling the streets, refreshed and ready for her girls.

* * *

Ivy sat on the couch. Alone. Again. Deeply held convictions about the subordinate and inferior nature of humanity, especially males, sometimes really really sucked.

But then again, so did boys, so what was a plant-girl to do.

Harley was having consecutive "on" months with The Joker, leaving Ivy pretty much alone most of the time. And after you've hatched a couple of evil plans and discovered a new plant and made multiple tubes of evil lipstick, you run out of things to do. She'd hit a standstill in her latest Virginia Woolf book and not in the mood for Plath tonight. Not even Ani was doing it for her. The only thing left was DVR. Ivy was slowly going through every episode of What Not to Wear, Wife Swap, and Say Yes to the Dress that Harley had left on the DVR. Ivy always told Harley she "deleted all that crap." Secretly, though, she loved watching it.

Very. Very. Secretly.

Suddenly her sleek bright green flip phone buzzed. "Thank god," Ivy thought. She was having to lay off the eco-terrorism because of the kumquat incident last month, and was so demoralized that she certainly hadn't showered that day, and in fact was about to start the slew of Bridezillas on TiVO.. And that was no way to spend an evening. She grabbed the phone, by the remote.

1 New Text Massage from Batbrat 2

Interesting. Her favorite little Batbrat hadn't been around lately.

Ivy wondered if this text had anything to do with their "Who's the best redhead contest." Every so often, spunky little Barbara would try and take the tcoveted title with little texts like "Some girl in my class said she loves my hair." As the contest wore on, Barbara got sillier and sillier, escalating to texts along the lines of "Jude Law stopped me on the street and proposed to me because 'my hair is so red.'" Ivy would simply say "Congratulations." every time, and one up her with something like, "Too bad he's already begging me to have his babies because my hair is so lustrous. V. awkward for you. "

She secretly loved the contest. Actually she was a very secret woman. Which is why she'd wait a bit before opening the text. Leave Barbara hanging. Little, you know, little power trip going.

But then her phone buzzed again.

2 New Text messages

Odd, Ivy thought. She opened her inbox.

**"Hey. You busy tonight? Have I had a day you don't even. – Batbrat 2"**

**"Lunella's tonight at 8. Try to make it. -Kitten"**

Ah. Girl troubles. Finally. Maybe she could even punch some men. IIvy quickly threw away the remains of her ice cream feast, turned off the TV and ran to the shower. She texted both of them back.

Just what she needed.

* * *

The evening's birthday festivities, planned and executed by a one Harleen Quinzel, had not exactly gone as planned. Thing was, it wasn't even a novel experience anymore to be running down an alley on those little wheeled tennis shoes, covered in pie with only a cell phone, a hyena, and purse-ful of My Little Pony dolls for company.

She hoped that other girl was still alive, after that near-pie-drowning experience.

No she didn't.

Mr. J had about four or five birthdays every year. For all her psychology degrees she still couldn't quite figure out if he actually remembered anything from his past, or if he just thought it'd be more fun to make it all up. No matter the actual diagnosis, four or five times a year he claimed his birthday was coming up. They all fell generally around March 10th, May 18th, July 2nd, and November 30th, which was generally when Bruce Wayne's annual Metropolis business meetings were, so a certain someone always felt lonely and neglected.

Not that she noticed or anything.

Harley, despite all evidence to the contrary, was not stupid. Far from it. People got confused, because she was, well, a little willful about the reality she was willing to accept. And anyway she always felt it was sort of a--whatshisname, Hamlet, a Hamlet deal. Mad north by something, when the wind was something she could tell a something from a something else that was dissimilar to the previous something.

Harley paused, pouted. That was not as moving, exactly, as she remembered it being. Maybe it lost a little in translation.

She continued on. So maybe she didn't pay that much attention in class. Whatever. She was still smart enough to keep her own pad, for just such occasions as this. Sometimes a girl needed a little pick-me-up shower. A couple of bandages. Some chocolate.

_Also maybe a place to curl up and sob your eyes right out of their sockets _or maybe just plan revenge. Or, as Harley knew was more likely, get distracted, watch Pepper Ann (_you can do it, yes you can_) and eat Lucky Charms until she called Red. Maybe some hide and seek or chess with the hyena.. He always won, but Harley didn't care. That's what love was all about.

Of course pasty-faced creep would know nothing about that. She had slaved, _slaved_ over an overlarge novelty oven to make that pudding pie--sure, okay, maybe it wasn't original or anything, but there was always room for the classics! She had made sure the hyenas were fed, the decorations arranged, the copious amounts of explosives and whipped cream all set, just to see her own puddin' burst through the door with the sexiest smile in the world--

And two little clowned-up skanks, one on either arm.

It got a little hazy after that. Harley remembered extricating herself from the pastry, super-sexily, of course, like she did everything, the stumbling and squealing just part of the super-sexy grace that was hers. Words were exchanged. Allegations were made. Somebody may have thrown a clown-skank out a window. The other one might have been forcibly immersed in pie, but she could have just imagined that happening, of course. Stupid stupid butthead clown-dorks were dealt with. My Little Ponies utilized in unorthodox and non-child-safe manners.

Long story short Harley was gonna clear out til things got better. A day or so at the most.

Probably. Maybe she'd just take a walk around the block, pick up some jelly donuts--

Her phone buzzed. Harley stopped, squealed. Red would yell at her, sure, but then they could get down to having fun.

Harley was surprised to find three texts.

**"Hey baby. Picking you up in ten. Sans creep. Not kidding. Be ready. ~Red."**

**"Lunella's tonight at 8. Try to make it. ~Kitty-head."**

**"Hey. You busy tonight? Have I had a day you don't even. ~Babsy-wabsy-woo-woo."**

Cheered, Harley Quinn sent her hyena running home, and found a mostly inconspicuous corner where Red could pick her up. Red did always know where she was, which would have troubled Harley were it not so convenient.

Pepper Ann (_much too cool for seventh graaade!) _could wait. Her girls needed her!

_TO BE CONTINUED._


End file.
